by Ruth Rendell
He made her no answer. He was looking at two lines of type in italics on an otherwise blank sheet. The dedication. For Rhoda Comfrey, without whom this book could never have been written.
Chapter 15
‘Our first red herring,’ Burden said.
‘Only it wasn’t a red herring. If this isn’t proof West knew her I don’t know what would be. He’s known her for years, Mike. This book was published ten years ago.’
It was a cool clean day. The rain had washed roofs and pavements and had left behind it a thin mist, and the thermometer on Wexford’s wall recorded a sane and satisfactory sixty-five degrees. Burden was back to a normal-weight suit. He stood by the window, closed against the mist, examining Apes in Hell with a severe and censorious expression.
‘What a load of rubbish,’ was his verdict. He had read the plot summary. ‘Ten years ago, yes,’ he said. ‘That Hampton guy, his publisher, why didn’t he tell you West had dedicated a book to this woman?’
‘Maybe he’d forgotten or he’d never known. I don’t know anything about publishing, Mike. They call Hampton West’s editor, but for all I know an editor may never see a writer’s dedication. In any case, I refuse to believe that a perfectly respectable and no doubt disinterested man like Hampton was involved in a plot to conceal from me West’s friendship with Rhoda Comfrey. And the same goes for his literary agent and for Vivian and Polly Flinders. They simply didn’t know about the dedication.’
‘It’s a funny thing about the wallet, isn’t it?’ said Burden after a pause. ‘He must have given it to her. The alternative is inconceivable.’
‘The alternative being that he lost it and it was found by chance and deliberately kept by a friend of his? That’s impossible, but there’s a possibility between those two alternatives, that he left it behind in her house or flat or wherever she lived and she, knowing he was to be away for a month, just kept it for him.’
‘And used it? I don’t think much of that idea. Besides, those two girls told you he lost it, and that he asked this Polly to report the loss to the police.’
‘Are they both lying then?’ said Wexford. ‘Why should they lie?’
Burden didn’t answer him. ‘You’ll have him fetched back now, of course.’
‘I shall try. I’ve already had a word with the French police. Commissaire Laquin in Marseilles. We worked together on a case once, if you remember. He’s a nice chap.’
‘I’d like to have heard that conversation.’
Wexford said rather coldly, ‘He speaks excellent English. If West’s in the South of France he’ll find him. It shouldn’t be too difficult even if he’s moving from one hotel to another. He must be producing his passport wherever he goes.’
Burden rubbed his chin, gave Wexford the sidelong look that presages a daring or even outrageous suggestion. ‘Pity we can’t get into West’s flat.’
‘Are you insane? D’you want to see me back on the beat or in the sort of employment Malina Patel marked out for me? Christ, Mike, I can just see us rifling through West’s papers and have him come walking in in the middle of it.’
‘OK, OK. You’re getting this Laquin to send West home? Suppose he won’t come? He may think it a bit thin, fetching him back from his holiday merely because he knew someone who got herself murdered.’
‘Laquin will ask him to accompany him to a police station and then he’ll phone me so that I can speak to West. That’ll be a start. If West can give me Rhoda Comfrey’s London address he may not need to come home. We’ll see. We can’t take any steps to enforce his return, Mike. As far as we know, he’s committed no offence and it’s quite possible he hasn’t seen an English newspaper since he left this country. It’s more than likely, if he’s that much of a francophile.’
Given to non sequiturs this morning. Burden said, ‘Why couldn’t this book have been written without her?’
‘It only means she helped him in some way. Did some research for him, I daresay, which may mean she worked in a library. One thing, this dedication seems to show West had no intention of concealing their friendship.’
‘Let’s hope not. So you’re going to glue yourself to this phone for the next few days, are you?’
‘No,’ Wexford retorted. ‘You are. I’ve got other things to do.’
The first should have been to question those girls, but that would have to wait until they were both home in the evening. The second perhaps to visit Silk and Whitebeam in Jermyn Street and discover in detail the circumstances of the purchase of that wallet. And yet wouldn’t all be made plain when West was found? Wexford had a feeling – what anathema that would have been to the Chief Constable – that West was not going to be easily found. He sent Loring back to the leather shop and Bryant to inquiring of every library in London as to whether any female member of their staff had not returned to work after a holiday as she should have done. Then he took himself to Forest Road. Young Mrs Parker with a baby on her hip and old Mrs Parker with a potato peeler in her hand looked at Apes in Hell not so much as if it were an historical novel as any hysterical novelty. Babies and beans might be all in the day’s work to them. Books were not.
‘A friend of Miss Comfrey’s?’ said Stella Parker at last. It seemed beyond her comprehension that anyone she knew or had known could also be acquainted with the famous. Grenville West was famous in her eyes simply because he had his name in print and had written things which got into print. She repeated what she had said, this time without the interrogative note, accepting the incredible just as she accepted nuclear fission or the fact that potatoes now cost fifteen pence a pound. ‘A friend of Miss Comfrey’s. Well!’
Her grandmother-in-law was less easily surprised. ‘Rhoda was a go-getter. I shouldn’t wonder if she’d known the Prime Minister.’
‘But do you know for a fact that she was a friend of Grenville West’s?’
‘Speak up.’
‘He wants to know,’ said Stella Parker, ‘if you know if she knew him, Nanna.’
'How should I know. The only West I ever come across was that Lilian.’
Wexford bent over her. ‘Mrs Crown?’
‘That’s right. Her first husband’s name was West. She was Mrs West when she first come her to live with Agnes. And poor little John, he was called West too, of course he was. I thought I told you that, young man, when we was talking about names that time.’
‘I didn’t ask you,’ said Wexford.
West is a common name. So he thought as he waited in the car for Lilian Crown to come home from the pub. But if Grenville West should turn out to be some connection by marriage of Rhoda Comfrey’s how much more feasible would any acquaintance between them be. If, for instance, they called each other cousin as many people do with no true blood tie to justify it. Their meeting, their casual affection, would then be explained. And might she not have called herself West, preferring this common though euphonious name over the rarer Comfrey? Lilian Crown arrived home on the arm of an elderly man whom she did not attempt to introduce to Wexford. They were neither of them drunk, that is to say unsteady on their feet or slurred in their speech, but each reeked of liquor, Lilian Crown of spirits and the old man of strong ale. There was even a dampish look about them, due no doubt to the humid weather, but suggesting rather that they had been dipped into vats of their favourite tipple.
Mrs Crown evidently wanted her friend to accompany her and Wexford into the house, but he refused with awed protestations and frenetic wobblings of his head. Her thin shoulders went up and she made a monkey face at him. ‘OK, be like that.’ She didn’t say good-bye to him but marched into the house, leaving Wexford to follow her. He found her already seated on the food-stained sofa, tearing open a fresh packet of cigarettes.
‘What is it this time?’
He knew he was being over-sensitive with this woman, who was herself totally insensitive. But it was difficult for him, even at his age and after his experiences, to imagine a woman whose only child was a cripple and an idiot not to have had her
whole life blighted by her misfortune. And although he sensed that she might answer any question he asked her about her son with indifference, he still hoped to avoid asking her. Perhaps it was for himself and not for her that he felt this way, perhaps he was, even now, vulnerable to man’s or woman’s, inhumanity.
‘You were Mrs West, I believe,’ he said, ‘before you married for the second time?’
‘That’s right. Ron – Mr West, that is – got himself killed at Dunkirk.’ She put it in such a way as to imply that her first husband had deliberately placed himself as the target for a German machine-gun or aircraft. ‘What’s that got to do with Rhoda?’
‘I’ll explain that in a moment, if you don’t mind. Mr West had relatives, I suppose?’
‘Of course he did. His mum didn’t find him under a gooseberry bush. Two brothers and a sister he had.’
‘Mrs Crown, I have good reason to be interested in anyone connected with your late niece who bears the name of West. Did these people have children? Do you know where they. are now?’ Would she, when she hadn’t known the address of her own niece? But very likely they had no reason to be secretive.
‘Ethel, the sister, she never spoke a word to me after I married Ron. Gave herself a lot of mighty fine airs, for all her dad was only a farm labourer. Married a Mr Murdoch, poor devil, and I reckon they’d both be over eighty now if they’re not dead. The brothers was Len and Sidney, but Sidney got killed in the war like Ron. Len was all right, I got on OK with Len.’ Mrs Crown said this wonderingly, as if she had surprised herself by admitting that she got on with anyone connected to her by blood or by marriage. ‘Him and his wife, they still send me Christmas cards.’
‘Have they any children?’
Mrs Crown lit another cigarette from the stub of the last, and Wexford got a blast of smoke in his face. ‘Not to say children. They’ll be in their late thirties by now. Leslie and Charley, they’re called.’ The favour in which she held the parents did not apparently extend to their sons. ‘I got an invite to Leslie’s wedding, but he treated me like dirt, acted like he didn’t know who I was. Don’t know if Charley’s married, wouldn’t be bothered to ask. He’s a teacher, fancies himself a cut above his people, I can tell you.’
‘So as far as you know there isn’t a Grenville West among them?’
Like Mrs Parker, Lilian Crown had evidently set him down as stupid. They were both the sort of people who assume authority, any sort of authority, to be omniscient, to know all sorts of private and obscure details of their own families and concerns as well as they know them themselves. This authority did not, and therefore this authority must be stupid. Mrs Crown cast up her eyes.
‘Of course there is. They’re all called Grenville, aren’t they? It’s like a family name, though what right a farm labourer thinks he’s got giving his boys a fancy handle like that I never will know.’
‘Mrs Crown,’ said Wexford, his head swimming, ‘what do you mean, they’re all called Grenville?’
She reeled it off rapidly, a list of names. ‘Ronald Grenville West, Leonard Grenville West, Sidney Grenville West, Leslie Grenville West, Charles Grenville West.’
‘And these people,’ he said, half-stunned by it, ‘your niece Rhoda knew them?’
‘May have come across Leslie and Charley when they was little kids, I daresay. She’d have been a lot older.’
He had written the names down. He looked at what he had written. Addresses now, and Mrs Crown was able, remarkably, to provide them or some of them. The parents lived at Myfleet, a village not far from Kingsmarkham, the son Leslie over the county boundary in Kent. She didn’t know the whereabouts of Charley, but his school was in South London, so his father said, which meant he must live down there somewhere, didn’t it?
And now he had to ask it, as tactfully as he could. For if every male of the West family… ‘And that is all?’ he said almost timorously. ‘There’s no one else called Grenville West?’
‘Don’t think so. Not that I recall.’ She fixed him with a hard stare. ‘Except my boy, of course, but that wouldn’t count, him not being normal. Been in a home for the backward like since he was so high. He’s called John Grenville West, for what it’s worth.’
Chapter 16
No word came from Commissaire Laquin that day. But Loring’s inquiries were more fruitful, clearing up at last the matter of the wallet.
‘Those girls weren’t lying,’ Wexford said to Burden. ‘He did lose a wallet on a bus, but it was his old one he lost. That’s what he told the assistant at Silk and Whitebeam when he went on Thursday, 4 August, to replace it with a new one.’
‘And yet it was the new one we found in the possession of Rhoda Comfrey.’
‘Mike, I’m inclined to believe that the old one did turn up and he gave her the new one, maybe on the Saturday when it was too late to tell Polly Flinders. She told him she had reached the age of fifty the day before, and he said OK, have this for a present.’
‘You think he was a sort of cousin of hers?’
‘I do, though I don’t quite see yet how it can help us. All these people on the list have been checked out. Two of them, in any case, are dead. One is in an institution at Myringham, the Abbotts Palmer Hospital. One is seventy-two years old. One had emigrated with his wife to Australia. The last of them, Charles Grenville West, is a teacher, has been married for five years and lives in Carshalton. The father, also John Grenville West, talks of cousins and second cousins who may bear the name, but he’s doddery and vague. He can’t tell us the whereabouts of any of them. I shall try this Charles.’
Almost the first thing Wexford noticed when he was shown into Charles Grenville West’s living room was a shelf of books with familiar titles: Arden’s Wife, Apes in Hell, Her Grace of Amalfi, Fair Wind to Alicante, Killed with Kindness. They had pride of place in the bookcase and were well cared for. The whole room was well cared for, and the neat little house itself, and smiling, unsuspicious, cooperative Mrs and Mrs West.
On the phone he had told Charles West only that he would like to talk to him about the death of a family connection of his, and West had said he had never met Rhoda Comfrey – well, he might have seen her when he was a baby – but Wexford would be welcome to call just the same. And now Wexford, having accepted a glass of beer, having replied to kind inquiries about the long journey he had made, looked again at the books, pointed to them and said:
‘Your namesake would appear to be a favourite author of yours.’
West took down Fair Wind to Alicante. ‘It was the name that first got me reading them,’ he said, ‘and then I liked them for themselves. I kept wondering if we were related.’ He turned to the back of the jacket and the author’s photograph. ‘I thought I could see a family resemblance, but I expect that was imagination or wishful thinking, because the photo’s not very clear, is it? And then there were things in the books, I mean in the ones with an English setting…’
‘What sort of things?’ Wexford spoke rather sharply. His tone wasn’t one to give offence, but rather to show Charles West that these questions were relevant to the murder.
‘Well, for instance, in Killed with Kindness he describes a manor house that’s obviously based on Clythorpe Manor near Myringham. The maze is described and the long gallery. I’ve been in the house, I know it well. My grandmother was in service there before she married.’ Charles West smiled. ‘My people were all very humble farm workers and the women were all in service, but they’d lived in that part of Sussex for generations, and it did make me wonder if Grenville West was one of us, some sort of cousin, because he seemed to know the countryside so well. I asked my father but he said the family was so huge and with so many ramifications.’
‘I wonder you didn’t write to Grenville West and ask him,’ said Wexford.
‘Oh, I did. I wrote to him care of his publishers and I got a very nice letter back. Would you like to see it? I’ve got it somewhere.’ He went to the door and called out, ‘Darling, d’you think you could find that l
etter from Grenville West? But he’s not a relation,’ he said to Wexford. ‘You’ll see what he says in the letter.’
Mrs West brought it in. The paper was headed with the Elm Green address. ‘Dear Mr West,’ Wexford read. ‘Thank you for your letter. It gives me great pleasure that you have enjoyed my novels, and I hope you will be equally pleased with Sir Bounteous, which is to be published next month and which is based on Middleton’s A Mad World, My Masters. This novel also has an English setting or, more precisely, a Sussex setting. I am very attached to your native country and I am sorry to have to tell you that it is not mine, nor can I trace any connection between your ancestry and mine. I was born in London. My father’s family came originally from Lancashire and my mother’s from the West Country. Grenville was my mother’s maiden name. ‘So, much as I should have liked to discover some cousins – as an only child of two only children, I have scarcely any living relatives – I must disappoint myself and perhaps you too. ‘With best wishes, ‘Yours sincerely, ‘Grenville West.’
With the exception, of course, of the signature, it was typewritten. Wexford handed it back with a shrug. Whatever the information, or lack of it, had done for the author and for Charles West, it had certainly disappointed him. But there was something odd about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The style was a little pretentious with a whisper of arrogance, and in the calculated leading from paragraph to paragraph, the almost too elegant elision of the professional writer. That wasn’t odd, though, that wasn’t odd at all… He was growing tired of all these hints, these ‘feelings’, these pluckings at his mind and at the fingerspitzengefuhl he seemed to have lost. No other case had ever been so full of whispers that led nowhere. He despised himself for not hearing and understanding them, but whatever Griswold might say, he knew they were sound and true.
‘A very nice letter,’ he said dully. Except, he would have liked to add, that most of it is a carefully spun fabric of lies.
